My Guardian Angel
by Touta Matsuda
Summary: Contact was first established in middle school. Dean gets in trouble for masturbating in class, but claims he didn't do it. Anti-psychotic medication kept his mind blank until his 18th birthday when he finally quits. R&R
1. Chapter 1

Middle school was hell for Dean Winchester. That's when his life started to get really weird, and took a lovely downward spiral, straight into a metaphorical dark, dank pit. His class mates avoided him, laughed at him and teased him. To avoid similar treatment, Sam moved to a different school to make his life easier. No one knew what to do with Dean after he started changing, and even though the doctors said it was just a phase, a nagging voice in the back of his mind told Dean it was something else.

He was twelve, sitting through one of the most boring sixth grade science lessons of his life when something interesting happened. He felt a hand on his shoulder and heard a voice like gravel whisper in his ear. "Dean, keep yours eyes straight ahead," the whispered breath caught in Dean's ear and gave him shivers. Turning his head to the side, Dean couldn't see anything. The voice whispered again, "Dean, I told you not to turn around." The grip on his shoulder tightened to indicate the seriousness of the order. Dean's eyes fixed onto the blackboard at the front of the room, not daring to turn around again.

"I'm going to introduce you to something quite... nice. I'm sure you'll enjoy it." There was something hidden beneath that whisper that Dean couldn't quite comprehend, and a desire he wasn't old enough to understand. Dean felt a tentative stroking on his jeans, as though there were a older man's strong hand caressing the fly of his jeans. Dean's breath caught in his throat, but he didn't dare look away from the board. The feeling continued in deliberate strokes, and before long Dean could feel his belt loosen followed by the unzipping of his pants. "Don't be concerned," the rough whispered consoled him, "I would never hurt you. Dean, let me take care of you."

Dean's breathing hitched again as the unknown groping continued. He could feel skin on skin as his private areas were thoroghly exlored. Dean closed his eyes, unsure of how to act next. Whatever this was, judging by the squeezed sholder earlier, it was able to inflict pain. And apparently, it was also able to evoke pleasure. Dean let out a half stifled moan as his penis was pulled free of his boxers and made contact with the brisk open air.

"Baby, you have no idea what's in store for you," the whisper became more of a growl, more aggressive, and the rhythmic pumping increased with a tightened grip. Dean yelped in surprise and opened his eyes from the start. His teacher was slack jawed, and Dean found he had the attention of all his class mates focused on him, all with similiar expressions of shock and disgust.

"S-stop," Dean stammered in protest, but the grip on his shoulder vanished before he even needed to ask, and as the haze cleared, Dean realized that it was his own hand that was loosening its grip on his cock. The owner of the voice was no where to be found, leaving him alone to try and explain what had happened.

"Young man, pull up your pants and get to the principal's office. Now." The teacher looked like she wanted to be angry, but looked too conflicted with with confusion and disgust to get there.

Dean nodded, unsure of what else to do. He fixed his jeans and left the class room.

Dean waited twenty minutes after his father was called before the angry man came in to talk to him. John walked over to Dean, but didn't get too close. "Boy, your teacher told me what happened."

Dean shook his head, the teacher had no idea what happened, so how could she have explained anything to him?

"I don't know what you were thinking or where you picked up on that and I don't want to know. Dean, you can't just pull out and start jerking off in the middle of class. You're not even-!" John brought a hand up to rub his temples and calm himself. "I don't ever want to hear about anything like this again. Ever. Do I make myself perfectly clear?"

Dean nodded, not making eye contact with his dad. Something else was in that room. "Dad, it wasn't me," Dean tried to explain.

"Don't you pull that crap! I don't know how you even thought that excuse would work in this situation! Dean, of course it was you. Don't talk like that or people will start to think you're crazy."

"But dad, it really wasn't me. Someone was there, he was talking to me."

"HE?" John shouted at Dean in astonishment. "You're imagining men when you do this?"

The significance of that statement was almost lost on the twelve year old Winchester boy, but he knew enough to know that his dad didn't like it. "He told me to be quiet and keep still. I didn't do that on purpose! I don't know what's going on!" Dean's eyes were brimming with tears, and he tried desperately to fight it. If his own dad wouldn't listen, who would?

John could tell that his son was severely troubled by what had transpired, and moreover that he honestly believed that there was another individual involved. Sighing and shaking his head, John ran through his options. What could he do? His son was only twleve, and considering that, this sort of behaviour was less than expected. It only made matters worse that the whole ordeal seemed to scare Dean.

"Get in the car, let's go."

"Where are we going?" Dean didn't want to stay at school, but he also couldn't help his curiousity. What was his dad's answer going to be to this, how could he fix it? Dean followed his dad out of the school. Several of his peers were standing around watching them. When Dean looked at them they all turned away and began to talk amongst themselves. Dean turned his gaze back to the ground behind his dad's footsteps.


	2. Chapter 2

"Mr. Winchester I assure you it is only a phase," the psychiatrist strummed on his clipboard, trying his utmost to be patient with the ex-marine sitting across from him.

"What the hell kind of phase is that? I've never even heard of this crazy shrink-speak." John was not pleased with the progression of events. A week ago he picked Dean up from school after being called off the job sight by a very alarmed principal. Since then the unexplained 'assissted' masturbation had occurred another three times. After two referrals from doctor to doctor, John and his son ended up in the office of Dr. Zachariah, a reknowned psychiatrist.

"His unconscious has detected the onset of puberty and has gotten ahead of itself. The fantasies he is having are running rapant down there, and some of them are surfacing in his conscious mind. The deep voice and strong hand, they're representations of what he is to become, and of what he looks for. It's not that different from young children having imaginary friends. To the child, the friend is real, almost tangible. The child themselves will break the vase in the hall, but honestly believes that their friend did it. In your son's case it's not so much an imaginary friend as it is an imaginary rapist. He has given no consent, and from what I've seen, the episodes can be rather painful. Eventually his mind will sort through these things and return to reality. It is simply a matter of time. So Mr. Winchester I assure you that it is only a phase."

John tried taking in the overly Freudian explanation for his son's behaviours. The accusation that his son was gay never left the back of his mind, and Dr. Zachariah had done nothing to ease that, only agitate it. What was worse was the idea that his son was mentally tortured throughout these episodes. An imaginary rapist? John sighed, he was concerned for his son and frustrated with the answers he'd been getting so far, even more frustrated that there was really nothing he could do to help.

"In the mean time we can start him on a low dosage of perphenazine, an antipsychotic drug. It is designed to counteract the positive symptoms that we're seeing here, such as the voices. One of its side effects targets sex drive, so it will be particularly helpful here. Some of the other side effects that he may experience are apathy, lethargy, and depression. We will start him on a low dosage of lithium as a mood balancing agent." As Dr. Zachariah spoke he filled out perscription forms for months worth of medication.

Dean sat quietly the the second chair next to John. After the last week he didn't want to be anywhere but his room, especially not in a psychiatrists office. Whatever was talking to him wasn't imaginary, he knew that much. There was no way he was simply made up in Dean's head. What Dean didn't tell John was that his rough-voiced visitor had been around more than three times- almost every night was a prolonged visit from the stranger. Three incidences had been demandingly in public.

"Dad, I don't want to be on meds, it's not cool."

John had had enough, "It's not 'cool'?" John snapped, turning toward the source of his week-long frustration. "I'll tell you what's not cool. You having an overwhelmingly strong unconscious desire to fuck men at the age of twelve is uncool. You shamelessly unzipping your pants at school and jerking off in front of your class is uncool. And doing it again at the dinner table? In front of your little brother? He's eight, Dean." John started calming down after his outburst. When he saw the hurt expression on his son's face he felt awful for the whole thing.

"Look, we're going to get you on these medications, and we're going to get you under control. You won't have to worry about any of this ever again. It'll just go away, I promise." John rested a hand on Dean's shoulder to comfort him.

As soon as his father's hand made contact with the unseen-visitor's preferred shoulder, Dean smacked it away. "Don't touch my shoulder." Dean looked at his father with intensely serious eyes and spoke in an even and unwavering tone.

John didn't push it and left the boy alone. Taking the perscriptions from the doctor, John gave Dean quick instructions to follow him, and turned his back on him.

The Monday after it started, Dean went back to school. As soon as he walked in the door he could feel that things were never going to be alright. The teachers looked at him as though he weren't a child, and his peers avoided him. Dean could hear their whispers as he walked passed groups of children in the halls on his way to the classroom. Children his age didn't have a very big vocabulary, but their parents did. Many of the kids tried their best to repeat what their father or mother had said about it, only to mess it up. They settled on 'freak' as the best descriptor.

Dean made it through half the school day before walking home during lunch period. The voice was back, and Dean didn't want to be caught in class again. He walked quickly but awkwardly down the street.

"Can you wait?" Dean asked, the incessent grabbing making walking rather difficult.

"Don't tell me what to do, Dean. You should show me some respect." The voice was always right near his ear. It was never in his head. That rough whisper always sent shivers down Dean's spine- excited him in ways he had never known. Even when he was angry, there was always something sensuous about his proximity to Dean.

Dean hit the lawn outside his window and rolled onto his back. His shoulders dug into the grass as he arched his back, eager for more. Resisting his unseen companion was useless, and attempts to do so failed quickly. Dean let out an uncensored groan of pleasure as his hand skillfully pumped away. He'd come to the conclusion that the voice guided his body to act, but it didn't feel like his own hand when it happened. It felt bigger, stronger. Like the mark that was slowly becoming a permanent scar on his shoulder.

Dean collapsed back onto the grass and simply lay there staring at the sky. "Hey," Dean addressed the voice, "What's your name?"

But the voice was gone.


	3. Chapter 3

My Guardian Angel - Chapter 3

Dean could hear John's footsteps pass overhead, to-and-fro, over and over as his father prepared to leave. "Dean! Would you get up here?" John called down the stairs out of habit, but he didn't expect Dean to answer. The boy had five minutes to respond or make an appearance, and then John would leave without him.

Pushing off his desk with both hands, Dean went rolling back with ease in his chair across the unfinished basement floor. Dean leaned over to check his calender - January 22. It was the weekend before his 18th birthday. Dean shook his head, it wasn't going to be that easy to get him out of the house, but in four short days John would probably kick him out anyay. Dean turned back to his comupter screen where the Anarchist's Cookbook was open to a particularly interesting entry on pop rocks-like explosives.

Starting up on antypsychotics at the age of twelve tends to mess with a person's head. The low dosage they administered did absolutely nothing to slow or deter the frequency or intensity of the undesired behaviour. A medium dosage was then administered, with the same results. After a year of altering dosage sizes Dean was started on a stronger antipsychotic medication being tested on the market. As far as John and Mary could tell, the new medication helped considerably.

Antipsychotic medicines were designed to treat schizophrenia, and some of the side effects on non schizophrenics include the appearance of the negative symptoms of schizophrenia, such as apathy, lethargy, and anti-social behaviours. Essentially, the pleasure centers in the brain are shut down, leaving the individual with no motivation and the inability to derive pleasure from any given activity.

Dean double checked the last directions when mixing in the bleach -messing up now would be catastrophic. The challenge of building effective munitions was one of Dean's recent hobbies, as well as mythical and supernatural lore, and cars. The basement had become his underground dungeon, so to speak. He had several car parts laying around, some were broken beyond repair, others he was in the process of adjusting to use out in the garage. There were movie and band posters hanging on the walls, and several easels set up with half finished paintings of demons and angels. There was a steel cabinet with a lock on it, where Dean stored several firearms -both legal and illegal to possess.

"In two days, everything is going to change," Dean spoke assuringly. "When I'm eighteen I won't have to listen to Mom and Dad anymore, I can do what I want. And what I want is to be able to feel something again. To feel you again, wherever you are." Pulling his black t-shirt off, Dean looked at the permanent handprint on his shoulder. For a year his companion had tried to fight off the medication, had tried to continue to get to Dean. When antipsych meds shut down the dopamine producing regions of Dean's brain, there was no pleasure to give him, and the presence had vanished. Dean hadn't heard the voice in almost four years.

"Dean! Last call! Are youg going to miss your own birthday dinner? Get up here!" For good measure, John added: "Before I come down there!"

Dean hated it when anyone came into his room. This was his area, and his alone. All they did was judge; they didn't care about him, what he was thinking, how he'd turn out. Just that he was weird, that he was different. But that could all be in his head, he was an apathetic and detached individual after all. Not by choice, not his choice, anyway. But there was no way they could justify caring about him when their own needs of hiding his 'disability' came first. What kind of parents put their kid on a drug that would knowingly kill creativity? His imagination was dead, gone away like any feeling of satisfaction of pleasure. Living in a world which required you to be unique and give a damn about other people was difficult when there was no reason to care.

Dean locked his computer terminal and pulled his t-shirt back on. At least Sam would be at dinner. Sam was the only one who really talked to Dean, but he kept a fair distance most of the time. Dean wasn't entirely sure if that was because Sam wanted to stay away, or because his dad kept him away. Dean would always follow Sam to his school to keep watch over him, and was subsequently always late for his first class -no one bothered him about it.

Dean trotted up the basement stairs. He was about to open the door when John swung it open and came nose to nose with his son.

"Jesus! Could you at least tell me that you're coming?"

"I'm here. That should mean that I'm coming. Where are we going? Where's Sam?" Dean's ability to create and partake of small talk reduced considerably under the medication, it came with the package of being anti-social and apathetic. It wasn't impossible, it just required effort, and very few things motivated Dean to put in the effort.

_"That'll change soon_," Dean thought to himself. He'd been planning to discontinue medication once he was able for a long time now. In his spare time (of which he had plenty) Dean had watched more than his fair share of movies. The ways in which people reacted to one another didn't make sense to him at first. Ever since he was twelve his behaviours and the ways in which he interacted with others had changed. Dean had come to realize that he didn't work the same way as other people, especially not emotionally. His medication was to blame, the doctors who put a twelve year old boy on heavy medication were to blame, and his parents who had allowed it, even encouraged it.

"Did you even hear me?" John sounded impatient, and Dean concluded that he had spaced out and missed something. "I said Sam's at a friend's house for a sleepover. He won't be home until Sunday, probably in the evening. It's just you, your mother, and I. Now get your shoes on."


	4. Chapter 4

_"At a friend's house? Why ditch my birthday for anyone else? Am I that bad that even my own brother wants nothing to do with me? Then again, I was going to ditch my own birthday dinner, so I can't really blame him."_ Dean was back in his den, dwelling on Sam's absence. It was coming up on two a.m. It was Sunday, the 24th of January. Dean was officially 18 years old, and out of his parents' reach -well, legally anyway. And that meant one very important thing to Dean Winchester: getting his life back.

Dean picked up his bottle of meds and looked it over one last time. He was not going to miss that yellow tinted bottle or that childproof lid, not in the least. Dean spun in his chair, aimed, and tossed the bottle into the garbage can across the room. Dean picked up the second bottle off the desk, these were the Lithium pill perscribed to him for mood control. Supposedly without them, the antipsychotics would have left him predisposed to suicidal thoughts and depression. Goodbye mood stabilizers. Aim. Toss. Garbage.

Today his life began, and his first order of business was to get the hell out of this town. It would take time to work up the courage to face his parents about what they put him through. If your twelve year old son needs guidance, than talk to him! For the love of Christ, don't put him on heavy medication. Recent medicine periodicals have been releasing studies showing that the use of antipsychotics on children is severely under recorded, and the effects are vastly different than those seen in adults. But did that stop his parents from putting him on them? No. Did that stop them from upping the dosage when there was no evident change? No. They didn't even know there were consequences, as far as Dean knew.

Other reasons for leaving had to do with school. Dean graduated with many of the same people who mocked and teased him throughout highschool, after the remainder of middle school. The doctors he'd seen in this town all knew, and did nothing. Every small town store clerk and public persona knew about Dean's meds. The place was gossip central, and sticking around would only cause problems for Dean's journey to make something of himself.

And he'd already be gone on that journey if he'd just had a chance to talk to Sam. "Well, I guess I'll have to write Sammy a note." Dean turned back to the desk and grabbed a pen and a notepad.

Dear Sam,

I don't know how much you really care to read this, but I care enough about you to write it. I tossed my meds in the garbage -I'm never taking those damn pills again. I plan to regain the parts of my mind that I lost these past few years so I'm leaving town. I'll miss you, and I hope I can find you again when I come back.

Love,

Dean

"Short and sweet, and to the point. At least it's not a waste if he just throws it out." Dean folded the paper twice and quietly slipped upstairs. Slowly creaking open Sam's bedroom door, Dean left the note on his pillow and left. Everything he needed he had already packed throughout Saturday. Dean made three short trips from the basement to the trunk of his dad's '67 the keys up in the air and catching them for good measure, Dean hopped into the drivers seat, turned the key in the ignition and listened to the beautiful old car rumble to life.

Backing out of the driveway, Dean wondered what the chances were that he'd be caught -it wasn't as though 1967 Chevrolet Impala's were commonplace. Considering he planned on hopping more than a few states, the chances became slim, especially if he moved fast.

Six hours into the drive and Dean started to feel the effects of his antipsychotics wearing off. His head began to pound, and all the lights and colors of his surroundings took on an eye piercing clarity. The bright warm colors of the risen sun jumped at him like a full painters palet; a mix of reds, yellows, and oranges that he never had considered before. Those colors would have been the perfect fit to complete that hellfire painting back home.

The under-use of his dopamine receptors over the last couple developmental years had left them sensitive to the pleasure hormone, and the simple sounds of the car and the colors in the sky were enough to bring Dean joys he hadn't known for years. The hold of the anitpsychotics let loose quickly in some aspects -it had, afterall, require constant upkeep to maintain its effects in the first place.

The joys were quickly offset by the pains. Withdrawl acted just as quickly as recovery, and those same beautiful colors were causing one hell of a headache. The fact that Dean was tired and unrested didn't help matters any.

"I need to stop, or I'm going to crash." Dean pulled to the side of the road. Stopping in a town would be conspicuous, especially if there was a search out for John's car. Chances were John assumed Dean took it, and would try to find him before reporting the car as stolen. Dean had time, but still... there was no point in risking it.

After shutting off the ignition, Dean flipped over the seat into the back seat and got comfy, as much as he could in a car. "Whatever or whoever you are, please come back. I can feel again, so please come back." Dean sighed, finding himself a little silly asking the eather for assistance in communication. Dean waited for several minutes before he hiked up the collar of John's also-stolen leather jacket and went to sleep.

"-ean."

Dean's eyelids fluttered as conscious thought came flooding back to him. Who said that? Where was that voice coming from? For all the coherent thoughts in his head, the only incoherent word he could mutter was: "Huh?"

"Dean, I'm here."

"Who are you?" Dean squinted, trying to focus. Whoever it was was in his car, with his back conveniently facing the sun, allowing the light to obscure his face.

"It's good to see you again, Dean." It was the voice, the same deep, gravelly, rough voice. The sound of that voice alone washed over Dean and left him shivers of pleasure. Something was working upstairs, and Dean didn't doubt for a second that he was clear of the effects of his meds.

"I've never even seen your face. Who are you? What's your name?" Dean propped himself up on his elbow, his right hand raised to block the sun as he tried to make out the facial features of the stranger in his car. Realistically, he should've been scared and defensive of a strange man in his car, but the owner of this voice made him feel safe.

"Castiel. Dean, how is it that you disappeared for these last few years?" Castiel moved closer, out of the sun and Dean finally got a look at his face. The man was attractive, with a slight cleft chin beneath just the right amount of stubble. His lips were perfectly outlined by five o'clock shadow and Dean couldn't imagine a facial structure like that without it. But these weren't the details that were most striking. What stood out the most was the stunning blue eyes that peered out into the world, and directly at Dean.

"How did _**I**_ disappear?" Dean asked somewhat incredulously. "I didn't go anywhere! You vanished, not me."

"No, I didn't. I was communing with your soul, Dean. But then it began to suffer and shrink. I tried to help... but you were smothered. I'm glad you survived." Cas reached a gentle had out and caressed Dean's cheek, concern evident in his eyes.

"My soul? Smothered?" Dean began methodically piecing together the different explanations. How he had felt during these last few years could easily be defined as soulless. No creativity, no social spark, no motivation, and no interest in life. But how could medicine effect something like a soul?

"Wait, wait, WAIT!" Dean shouted the last confused repetition while pinching the bridge of his nose. "How the hell can you commune with souls? What are you?"

Cas squinted his eyes a little and tilted his head to the side. "You truly haven't remembered a thing, have you? Oh Dean," Castiel sounded genuinely hurt as he wrapped his arms around Dean in a half comforting and half protective hug.

"I remember you from when I was twelve..."

"No, before that."

"What?" Dean pulled back and stared at Cas for a moment. Dean found that he'd been too accepting of this whole incident already. Since when was a soul talking, non-human something something ok to talk to? Or even a believable story? But something told Dean that Castiel wasn't lying.

Cas sighed in evident frustration. And pain. "Why?" He turned on Dean, tears in his eyes and sorrow deep in his voice. "Why did you have to be so stupid? Why did you leave me?"


End file.
